


Ambivalence

by sarcasticfirefighter



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (explained in notes), (he's just a doctor doing doctor stuff for a moment), Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Stephen Strange, Medical Jargon, Minor Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Partial Blindness, Past Christine Palmer/Stephen Strange - Freeform, Recovery, Stephen Strange-centric, Surgery, vision impairment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25033987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticfirefighter/pseuds/sarcasticfirefighter
Summary: Strange had known magic before coming to Kamar-Taj. Just the utterly different kind.It had been with him for a long time. From idiotic patients to magical portals Stephen created years later. Too bad the portals sometimes resembled splashes of colours that randomly appeared in his field of view - in his damaged and blind left eye.Or: post-crash + half blind Stephen & exploring his ambivalence towards magic.
Relationships: Christine Palmer & Stephen Strange
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Ambivalence

**Author's Note:**

> Idek, I wanted to write something angsty and medical. So there’s Stephen blind in one eye. It was my first thought after seeing him post-crash (if you try enough it could be canon).
> 
> Do not fear, the med terms are explained, go to the end notes. It’s merely a wink to the actual doctors; I'm not one tho. :')

Stephen would have never thought magic would be so similar, yet so different. At first, he would foolishly think about it, when he bothered to even do so, in terms of literal clowns entertaining kids with their atrocious balloons they were making on their birthdays that on rare occasions were held at the Metro-General Hospital. More often than not, they were mixed with some charity cause or a conference, just to squeeze some money out of the rich pricks who only wanted the best for their _precious sweethearts_. Never mind the reason, Strange was delighted, as his partner at the time, Christine Palmer would remind him with an eye roll of her lashes and exasperated tone. The children would be entertained, the parents happy to indulge in boring talks, relieved they have some time for themselves, some of them sipping the expensive bottle of wine or two. One drink turning into dozen, then there’s the fire, the fool’s head smashed on something equally stupid as them, and there he was, fixing them up, if they were worthy the neurosurgeon’s attention. Then the desperate family would thank him, if he wasn’t fast enough to flee after they asked everybody in the damn hospital for the great Doctor Strange; they’d happily provide, directing them to him, the bastards.

So yeah, before finding Kamar-Taj, for Stephen Strange magic was solely linked with medicine. Accidents brought fame and made his life easier to gain extra points, adding to his prestige and uplifting the giddy drive in him, wanting more and more and _more_. He was reaching for everything yet nothing, and was on the top of the world.

Until his own tragic accident.

He had raged that they ruined him but in retrospection, didn’t he do it on his own? The crash, the dive into the raging water as he flipped over the cliff of the mountain hurt like hell. There was the impact of the forced crash, his hands, his head, oh god... the pain and heat, the blood, something staining his vision somewhere, and excruciating numbness of his hands buried under something, the gasped breaths, the dark splotches manifesting before his vision, fragmented, incomplete and until he was out of consciousness.

Only when he stopped yelling at them and was left with Christine, he dared to question the other issue.

“What about the eye?” he rasped.

“What about it?” the doctor in her asked gently, sending him a questioning look.

Stephen gritted his teeth. This is fucking fantastic, he thought, recognising the building pressure in his chest, shattering the last ounce of control he had remained over his now useless body. Taking a deep breath, he precised, “They did something?”

“What are you asking, Stephen? Are you _—_ ”

“No, no,” he cut in, desperation clear on his face, “you couldn’t have _missed—no._ ”

“Stephen, you’re not making any sense.” Christine tried to bring him out of his trance but wasn’t successful.

He was startled when she brought her palm to cup his left cheekbone, and Stephen shuddered. She had never seen him like this and felt hopeless, he could tell and in normal circumstances would brush that off if he wasn’t trying to stave off the beginning of a panic attack.

Thankfully, she recognised what was going on and the next minutes were focused on calming his laboured breathing, yet the ghost of Christine’s touch remained. Through his grounding exhales and inhales Strange didn’t even notice the exact moment she requested for the ophthalmologist to come. When he did, soft and relived sound left his mouth. At least they sent someone somehow competent and whom he tolerated. Christine Palmer had known him so well.

Liam Travis was a rather average looking man with blonde curls of unruly hair, sharp blue eyes and was giving them a warm look. Probably still thought he and Christine were together.

“Doctor Palmer, Doctor Strange,” he greeted them kindly. “I was told you asked for a consultation?"

Stephen regarded the newcomer with an unreadable look then nodded slightly. “Doctor Travis. I gather you’re familiar with what… happened.”

“Yes, I heard.” Everybody did, Strange’s mind supplied the untold. “But I’m not to offer my pity, we both know that. What can I do for you, Doctor?”

“Doctor Palmer hasn’t mentioned any of you being present for the surgery,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if he was talking about the weather. “There are no records of eye examination. Just the general fix,” Stephen laughed, but it came as a broken sound, making the two other doctors alerted by the behaviour of the usually aloof neurosurgeon. While both knew the situation Strange found himself into was anything but normal, this proof of his humanity had probably made them concerned.

“So you missed it,” Strange continued, “do it now. The left one’s…” he chuckled, “beyond repartition, if the flashes and the partial curtain is anything to go by. I don’t know if there’s any pain in it as I’m currently heavily hooked on morphine.”

“Stephen, what are you…?” Christine started but wasn’t given a response. It wasn’t needed. She could figure it out.

“Alright,” the man agreed, and turned towards the sink, talking to them while washing his hands. “I’m not gonna lie, Strange. It does sound concerning. It also could be nothing serious. But we need to determine the status of your retina, as you’ve implied. It may not be detached.” He wandered back to his bed. “Now I’ll just take a quick look at the IOP. Can you look down for a few seconds? With your eyes loosely closed?”

Stephen nodded, knowing the usual procedure. Travis gently put the fingers on his eyelids and added a bit of tension as he tried to estimate the pressure of each eye. When he got to the left one, Strange couldn’t stop his wince and a moan of pain, “Fuck.”

The man withdrew from checking both at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor replied. As he fished for his phone, Travis continued, “I’m afraid it’s rather high, going to 50 mm Hg. I’m taking you right away for further tests and treatment.”

“Guessed that much,” Stephen sighed.

* * *

Of course he was right.

The main diagnosis had been: retinal detachment to the left eye. Not fully detached, yet still one.

The acute glaucoma attack, meaning in his case the pressure higher than measured by the previous examination, was being treated by the eye drops application followed by additional acetalozamide pill and IVs. He was closely monitored by Christine who refused to leave his side and was trying her hardest to distract him from the news of another upcoming operation. The operation that would happen when the IOP diminished to tolerable levels.

“I’m sorry,” Christine said suddenly.

“What for?”

“Not seeing that. We should have, even after your brain scans _—_ “

“No,” he ordered harshly, “don’t do that. I have been ruined but not stupid to think this is somehow your fault, Christine. Also, it doesn’t matter. Travis fixes this, I find other expertise followed by successful operation. And then this... nightmare,” he looked at his battered hands briefly, “’s gonna end.”

“Oh, _Stephen_ ,” he heard her say but the heart wrenching tone of Christine’s voice didn’t resonate with him. It wasn’t right. Nothing more was said, the two of them remained silent, lost in their own heads. The foreign feeling of impeding doom tugging at the neurosurgeon. Yet, he let her press a delicate kiss on his forehead before the woman left in search for the eye doctor.

The man pondered for a while on the possibilities but the conclusion was simple. There wasn’t another way. It couldn’t not be fixed. Neurosurgery was his whole life, he worked so damn hard for it, and for it to vanish? No. Stephen Strange was determined to get it all back.

It was just temporary.

When Travis finally returned and messed for a moment with the administrated IV, Christine Palmer was nowhere to be seen. He must had seen Stephen’s searching gaze.

“Doctor Palmer has left. But she told me to take care of you for a bit,” he laughed after Strange sent him a murderous look. “I’m kidding. She had to go for a consult,” Travis smiled at him and wasn’t that weird? Honestly, and to think Strange was _the strange_ one. Liam Travis was a pelicular man who wasn’t afraid to call anyone on something they were doing, especially proud and wealthy neurosurgeons like Doctor Strange. Despite doing that, he was well-liked by other doctors and co-workers, as well as the administration of the hospital. He had wielded some finesse to his whole persona and horrifyingly enough _—_ seemed to enjoy the younger man’s company, as they often tended to work together.

“You remember when we had to be careful about the position we’ll be putting the patient in?” Travis inquired while aiming the Icare Tonometer at him to check his eye pressure.

“Eidetic memory, Travis.”

“Right,” he said and put the tonometer away. “It may happen to you. Right’s good. Left’s much better, not far from the norm. You’re going on the table first thing in the morning, Doc.”

He nodded.

“About your vitrectomy. I’m going to insert the gas bubble, if possible. Preferably SF6 over C3F8. But you know how it is. If not, the oil would be strictly necessary to save your eye.”

“Just get this over with,” Strange replied tiredly.

He was done.

* * *

Travis fucked up.

After coming from the full anaesthesia and getting the status of his condition, Strange yelled once more. He had growled at Liam Travis until his voice turned hoarse and left him. He blamed him for it not going according to the plan.

So now he had a freaking _silicone oil_ in the eye and the inevitable operation on it in the next months for the removal. He was, what? Supposed to wander with oil in his eyeball, like a damn car, needing oil change? _What the hell!_

Theoretically, he understood it wasn’t Travis’ fault. As a doctor, a freaking surgeon – he knew, he had always known the possibility of complications. You touch one thing, then another activates, like the fall of the domino path.

The vitrectomy and the implemented laser treatment to the detached retina had resulted in other tears on the other side. Luckily, the retina hadn’t fully detached but what was the point, really? It was still retinal detachment. Untreatable for the exact moment, maybe never, but Travis was talking about “giving it time” and “letting it recover, the oil’s preventing further detachment”. Like hell he would be doing that. Oh, the fool had tried to make him better with “the path and bandage will come of tomorrow and we’ll see how it really looks now” but failed. So they get it off and then what? He was going to see, whatever “see” meant to the damaged eye anymore, everything behind the silicone oil warping the vision on some level. He still saw random flashes of light, the splashes of yellow and purple, and maybe, maybe those were the temporary remains of the sharp lightning in the operation room… maybe. He woud literally do anything to turn the time backwards and not answer the damn phone on the road.

But it wasn’t like he had any choice. Time didn’t do that. Christine was on a watch for any suspicious movement from him but honestly, he couldn’t even if he had tried. So what he had two surgeries in the last two, or was it three days? He lost count. He was exhausted and in freaking pain, and the additional fuck up weighing like a cloud, and there were nurses _pitying him_ while administrating the meds and constant eye drops and he hated, hated it, and lashed out at them and his best friend who patiently was taking it all.

He had never thought it would happen to him. Everybody but himself. As the doctor to be on that side… the renowned neurosurgeon, nonetheless. He could still do it, when the hands would be fixed. Probably. Surely. Strange didn’t know anybody who happened to be one-eyed, and had to figure it on his own. So far he knew that objects, people tend to suddenly appear on the blinded side and it was pissing him off. Also, he had to move his head a lot, as the depth perception was cut off. Goddammit. If his freaking hands worked, he would get rid of the dressing covering the left eye and see on his own what he really perceived at that moment. Travis and the nurses were against it, again telling him to wait until tomorrow and just rest because he had been surely exhausted and in pain, the very uncomfortable position of his hands still being up as to not further aggravate them, not helping his bad mood at all.

That wasn’t a lie. He was exhausted. However the turmoil of emotions eating at him? It was preventing any kind of peace, just making him restless and in need to flee from the ward and… Stephen didn’t really know. Supposedly to bury it all with the alcohol. Just everything to be the same as it was when he was speeding to the gala. Ugh.

It was supposed to be _fixed_.

The colours hadn’t disappeared overnight. Some of them did, as Strange predicted them being the remains of the lights of the operating theatre machines but the rest did not. It was annoying.

The next two days he spent at the ophthalmic ward as they had been keeping him there to make sure everything was healing accordingly. When deemed fit, Stephen was released to the previous room he woke up the first time after the car accident.

Everything was driving him crazy. The constant check ups and tests. Christine telling him to be patient, treating him like he was made of glass. The pain. The bandage no longer covering his eye. Stephen was able to see blurry movement in the corner of it, and it was more than before its surgery. Surprisingly, he didn’t see anything in yellow as he previously thought, everything just lacked sharpness. If he positioned his head in the good angle, he was able to determine the movements of the hand, and that was... all.

“Breathe,” Christine ordered but Stephen wasn’t acknowledging that.

It seemed so far away, unreachable and gone. It was pointless. Everything was pointless. His career was over. He was half blind for God’s sake! And now he was supposed to _breathe_?

Somehow, he managed that. But maybe that was because of the sedative he was given. It was not like he cared anymore.

Before he dozed off, he could swear he had heard quiet murmurs somewhere near his bed. While it was soothing, his mind kept bombarding him with the memory of the crash, the rain drumming on the speeding car, the windscreen wipers working furiously. All were reminding him that he had sustained yet another failure.

Who was the despised magical clown now? With no tricks up his sleeve.

* * *

And to think people _wanted_ magic in their life.

Unless it involuntary manifested before your damaged vision. To see the golden lines, splashes of colours, dancing circles of various sizes and shapes, smudges and stars, mockingly winking. Appearing and vanishing when you least expect them. Sometimes resembling the portals Strange created with the sling ring, the crippling anxiety going on and off, but never fully disappearing. Because that, that was the result of the accident and the failed surgeries. The duality of magic he knew was… frightening. Of course, he would never admit that out loud. Like he woud never admit to thinking about his impairment as anything resembling magic, even if for him the comparison was really accurate.

In all, the life of the Sorcerer Supreme was full of contradictions. While the ex-neurosurgeon Doctor Strange used to hold magic in contempt, the present Stephen Strange was torn and anxious, despite the rational part of him as the Sorcerer understood the necessity of his deemed path.

It was the constant battle for control. With the damaged vision, even after getting the oil out, the retina not fully fixed and acting up once in a while, he remained half blind, and with his hands – it obviously was a lost cause. But with the Mystic Arts? Strange could learn all he wanted, the crave for understanding and experiencing remained strong as ever, fuelling him to fight for the Earth and the Multiverse with the company of the Cloak of Levitation. He was extremely powerful, after all.

Magic was his downfall and saviour. It was a harsh reminder to not get cocky and too full of himself again, yet bringing the comfort of new beginnings and endings; the borders of the two being very pervasive and thin.

As well as the Ancient One’s reprieve drilled into his mind, later cemented by the experience. “Arrogance and fear still keep you from learning the simplest and most significant lesson of all. It’s not about you.”

It really wasn’t.

**Author's Note:**

>   * Retinal detachment – basically it’s the most important part of the eye, without it you can’t see. When partially detached, it’s moved, not sticking to other parts properly so the vision may be blurry, changed, you may see something like lightning and/or floaters but will be able to see something with the eye; usually it's painless. When the retina is actually detached, you won’t see.
>   * IOP – intraocular pressure. It’s a measurement of the fluid pressure inside the eye; each eye has its. Normal eye pressure ranges from 12 to 21 millimeters of mercury (mm Hg). It’s measured by a tonometer or the doctor’s hands (quick to estimate if it’s high or not).
>   * Vitrectomy – the general name of the procedure where the surgeon takes the vitreous gel from the eye and replaces it with other substance that is able to act as its substitute, eg.: gas, silicone oil; that v often is combined with other eyesight saving methods. It’s the most crucial ophthalmologic procedure and in some cases, the last chance to restore vision.
>   * Gas (air) bubble – mentioned: SF6 or C3F8 gas. After the gas insertion, the patient has to lay downwards and try to keep the head down while doing other stuff. The goal’s to stabilise the retina, preventing from its tears and/or detachment. That position allows the needed “pressure” to do so.
>   * SF6 gas – short lasting gas. The gas is visible in the eye up to one month tops. It dissolves on its own.
>   * C3F8 gas – long lasting gas. The gas stays for longer time, about 2-3 months.
>   * Oil – it means silicone oil that is used to act as a filling in the eye, because when the surgeon takes the vitreous gel that one naturally has in the eye, it needs to have something acting as its substitute, and to heal/prevent further damage to the retina. After some time the oil needs to be removed and that requires another surgery.
> 



End file.
